Girl on the Block Page 3

  We might blame places like Smithfield and the Yards for the mass production scale that we operate on today, but they were also places of skill and learning. Each factory had a particular way of doing things, a way of cutting a carcass that had been perfected to ensure the highest yield possible. Men employed to cut under a factory name learned a certain skill set and passed it on, and in time the factory approach and the way that cuts of meat were broken down would influence those that we eat to this day.

  After the Second World War, industrial-scale farming began, with supermarkets creeping in beneath our noses during the early 1960s. The eyes of consumers were drawn to packaged meat on refrigerated shelves, eliminating the need for contact with someone behind a counter. Convenience overshadowed everything, factory farms made meat cheaper, and cheap meat created more demand.

  When I was growing up in the 1990s, butcher shops were still a staple in most villages or towns in the UK. By the turn of the millennium, the total number of butcher shops in the UK had declined from 22,000 in 1995 to barely over 7,000 by 2010.

  Most people of my generation see little need for a friendly neighborhood butcher when there’s a supermarket so close by. Older butchers feel that there is no one worthy of passing their knowledge on to, so they guard it close. Any tip or skill must be hard-earned. This older generation of butchers resents a world that seems to have turned against them or made them obsolete. Some of them have adapted, taking positions in factories to cut meat for supermarkets. Others still cling to the old traditions, a select few thriving while their peers lose their shops and go bankrupt.

  A few hours into my first day at the farm shop, I asked the men how they’d all become butchers, and their answers were similar. They had all started young, boys really when they began, many taking after their fathers or uncles. They had been taught the craft gradually, knowledge fed to them slowly, skills passed down from one line to the next, and it had been this way for generations. If they say the oldest profession in the world is prostitution, then butchery must come in as a close second. Our sexual appetites are only ever really eclipsed by our desire for a full stomach, after all.

  Family-run butcheries were once central to their communities but are now a rarity. The number of young people who see butchery as a viable career has declined drastically. Those who do stumble into this career today don’t have fathers, uncles, and cousins to teach them, and most will leave because they don’t understand the craft.

  I remember a card game that my parents and I would play before bedtime when I was a young girl, often after Mum’s soap opera had ended and they had made cups of tea to settle their stomachs after dinner. It was meant to teach children about jobs and careers, with pairs of picture cards in the deck, and on each card was a man or a woman dressed in uniform. The aim of the game was to get rid of all your cards by collecting pairs. There were greengrocers, nurses, doctors, and farmers with pale faces and rosy cheeks, drawn by an illustrator to be child friendly. The butcher card was just another pair for me to win, but I still remember what he looked like: red and white striped apron, a white hat, shirt and tie visible under the lapel of his overcoat. He was old, with gray hair, and he was a man. There had never been any doubt for me growing up that this was not a job for a woman.

  LOOKING DOWN AT MY APRON DRAPING AWKWARDLY OVER MY breasts, coming in a little at the waist and out again at the hips, I’d never felt more out of place.

  “Ever stuffed a chicken breast before?”

  I shook my head. Adam disguised a sigh as a deep breath. I was unsure of what I had done wrong. On the workstation in front of me sat a bowl with grated cheese and chopped spring onion that Adam had rolled into balls for me to stuff inside the chicken.

  “Okay,” Adam said sharply, hitting his palm against the metal table for attention. What he was about to show me seemed serious. Behind us, the rest of them moved in and out of the door with the lambs. Adam reached into the plastic vacuum bag beside me and pulled out a chicken fillet. His hands glistened with the pale pink juice. He threw it down with a careless slap.

  “You take the chicken breast and cut down the middle like this,” he showed me, holding the knife awkwardly with his small hands and making a cut down the center of the meat. “Not too far, though. Can you see I’ve only gone down to the mini fillet?” He flipped it to reveal a smaller muscle, like a flap or a wing. He opened it, wiggled it around, and turned it back over again.

  My mum was always nervous around raw chicken, like we were all going to catch food poisoning imminently. When she cooked with it, she would hold her hands away from her as though she had touched something toxic, and if my father or I went near her she would shoo us away. “I’ve been cutting chicken,” she would say, “I need to wash my hands.” She would scrub at her fingertips with the nailbrush by the sink, and the clear lacquer from the chicken would run with the water down into the plughole.

  “Then take the cheese and stuff it in the middle.” He was rough as he packed the cheese down into the cut he had made and wiped the remnants of it on his apron until the cheese smeared in pale streaks. “Then take some bacon, wrap it around like this, and tie one of these little bands around it to keep it secure.”

  What he had made seemed like fun. It was like arts and crafts. “Now you.”

  I looked down at the knife and tried to remember when I had ever held one. Not in school, in the stuffy Design & Technology room or the cookery classes. My secondary school was filled with kids who could not be trusted, too easily influenced by their friends, and so tools were kept under lock and key in a glass display case at the back of the classroom. If I ever helped my mother prepare dinner, activities like cutting meat that she considered “dangerous” were done by her.

  “Have you ever held a knife before?” he asked, like he was reading my mind. I didn’t need to shake my head for him to give me an exasperated look. “Look, hold it like this.”

  He held the knife out in front of him, a Victorinox boning knife with a straight blade around five inches long and an easy grip handle for safety. The silver blade, worn down over years of sharpening, glinted as he twisted it back and forth proudly so that I could get a better look. He gripped the handle in his fist with an intensity that turned his knuckles white, keeping his index finger on the back of the blade. I glanced at the other butchers, but they held their knives differently, with an easy confidence, like they were an extension of their limbs, quickly moving through the meat they were cutting.

  “It’s different for them,” he said indignantly, noticing my gaze, and offered me the black handle of the knife by holding the blade between two fingers. “All you need to be able to do is avoid cutting your hand open.”

  I took the knife from him carefully and slowly. It felt heavy in my hands, and I was infinitely aware of the thin blade. I imagined cutting myself, and somewhere in the pit of my stomach there was a jolt. It felt strange to hold this instrument that before today had meant nothing but danger. But I also felt important, and trusted. I carried that feeling with me for the rest of the day.

  AFTER MY FIRST DAY, MUM TOOK ME OUT TO A STEAK RESTAURANT, of all places, to celebrate. As we drove out of the car park and down into the valleys, the last of the summer sun disappearing over the vast hills, she seemed nervous, like she wanted to hear everything about my day but was afraid to ask.

  When we sat down at the table, I looked at my hands, resting palms up on the dark wooden table. No matter how many times I’d washed them that day, they felt chalky and rough as though they were coated in something, and if I rubbed them together, a thin layer would shake free in flakes and fall to the floor. It was not unpleasant. This was the first time in my life I had ever done physical work.

  She jumped straight into the questions. How was it? Who did I meet? Did I enjoy it? When was my next day? I answered them one at a time, methodically, even though I could barely contain my excitement over finally having a grown-up job. I told her I’d had fun, that the time had gone quickly, that I liked
my new coworkers. She waited until the steak arrived to ask me about the important stuff.

  “Were you okay with everything?”

  By everything, she meant the meat. Was I disgusted? She thought that I was squeamish.

  “Fine. It didn’t even register. Like, I didn’t look at what we were cutting and think That used to be a chicken.”

  “Well, maybe that’ll come,” she said, popping a chip into her mouth.

  “Maybe,” I said, “but honestly, I loved it. Everyone was so nice and friendly, and they were just so welcoming. I didn’t feel weird or new or anything. There’s this one guy, his name is Keith, but they call him Harris—that’s his second name. He was so, so friendly. Asking me questions about myself and keeping me talking. I felt really comfortable there. Adam showed me the ropes. Really, Mum, I’m excited.”

  I was lying. I had felt uncomfortable and alien, wishing for the time to pass so that I could stop being the “new girl” and just earn some money.

  “Oh, sweetheart, that’s wonderful.”

  And then she joked, “When do you think they’ll let you cut up a cow?”

  Joint Work

  The Chicken

  Jointing a chicken might just be one of the most useful things you can learn when it comes to trying butchery skills at home. Not only does it save money by allowing you to buy a whole bird instead of already prepared pieces, but you’ll have the carcass at the very end of it for some stellar soup.

  STEP 1 Buy the bird. Free-range birds should always be a little bigger—they’ve grown for longer and you’ll get much more flavor from them. The skin should be intact and fairly dry, and the breast and leg of equal ratio. If you find yourself looking at a chicken with tiny legs and lots of breast meat, this chicken came from a long line of genetically engineered breeds. Make sure you ask your butcher to include the giblets. If at any point in the future you’re going to be making gravy, the giblets are an essential ingredient for flavor.

  STEP 2 Sharpen your knife. You’ll need a fairly thin blade, and it will have to be sharp. Chicken bones are soft, but they can prove a little tricky to navigate if you’re a beginner.

  STEP 3 Place the bird on a trustworthy chopping board with the neck facing you. Use your hands and try to feel exactly where the breast and legs are. When you get a better sense of this, jointing the chicken will become much easier. Remember, the breast is actually the front of the chicken, but we lay the chicken on its back for cooking purposes.

  STEP 4 Start by removing the wings. Pull the wings out until they are stretched away from the carcass. At the very corner of the breast, where the wings attach, you will see a small joint, much like where our arms meet our shoulders. Using the tip of your knife, cut around the end of the wing so that you can see the joint itself. Then grasp the wings close to the joint and bend them downward. This will shake the bone free from the joint. Use your knife if you get stuck.

  STEP 5 Remove the breasts. Between the two breasts, you should be able to see a thin, slightly sunken bit of skin that runs the length of the bird. This indicates where the bird’s backbone is. Use your fingers to feel it—it’s usually around three inches long with a little point on the top. To remove each breast, you’ll need to make a cut at each side of the backbone. Starting on one side at the back of the bird, bring your knife forward, cutting as close to the backbone as you can. Then do the same on the other side. Use your hands to pull the meat away from the middle of the bird. Beneath it, you should see more bone—an oval-shaped carcass that curves around slightly. On each side, use your knife to follow the curve of the carcass until the breasts are free from the bone.

  STEP 6 Remove the legs. This doesn’t take much cutting, and it can be done very easily by pulling the bone from the joint socket. Turn the bird around until you’re looking into the cavity. Now that the breasts are removed, you should be able to see where the legs join the carcass. With a similar technique as the wings, grasp both of the legs and bend them backward beneath the bird. You should feel the joints pop and the thighbone will become exposed. Using your knife, begin close to the carcass and cut around the thighbone as close to the carcass as you can. The closer you get, the more meat you will keep on the legs.

  STEP 7 Trim any loose skin from the carcass. You should now have two wings, two legs, two breasts, and a carcass to do with what you will!

  Chicken Parcels

  A Fine Art

  Chicken parcels might sound like something you’d only find at a seventies dinner party, but they are fantastic comfort food and a perfect, easy meal for four. After what felt like a lifetime of making these at the farm shop, I have chicken parcels down to an art. All you need is a little precision, these four essential items, and an appetite:

  1. TRUSSING LOOPS Many butcheries will give these to you for free. Trussing loops are usually used for dressing chickens and look like small, stretchy elastic bands. You’ll need at least four.

  2. A DOUBLE CHICKEN BREAST This might be hard to find, as most butcher shops only sell single breasts. If you can’t get hold of a double breast, ask your butcher to crown a chicken for you and then remove the meat from the carcass. You’ll be left with two single breasts from the carcass, attached by the skin that covers them. It’s essential that the skin is left on—this will protect the meat during roasting.

  3. SAUSAGE MEAT MIX Instead of requesting the actual mix itself, you can just ask your butcher to remove the casing from a few sausages. Choose a sausage with plenty of peppery flavor. You’ll need 9½ to 10½ ounces (275 to 300 grams) of meat mix (about three sausages’ worth), rolled into a ball with a pinch of dry breadcrumbs.

  4. THINLY SLICED SMOKED STREAKY BACON In addition to the trussing loops, this will be used to keep the parcel together. You’ll need four slices.

  You can also opt to add a small amount of grated cheese or garnish the final parcel with a slice of orange on top. If you do choose to add grated cheese, a sharp cheddar works best and will melt during cooking into the stuffing ball.

  Once you have all of your ingredients, follow these steps:

  Preheat the oven to 475°F (250°C).

  Lay out the breast in front of you, skin-side down. You should see two teardrop-shaped pieces of meat, with smaller flaps on each side. The flaps are the mini fillet, and they are attached to the breast itself. Open them out away from the breast so that you’re left with a “pocket” in the middle where the two breasts meet.

  Roll the sausage meat into a tight ball (it should be around the size of your fist), add any extras, like the cheese, and place in the very center of the breast, then fold the mini fillets back in and over the top of the stuffing ball in the same motion as closing a pair of curtains. The stuffing ball should now be completely covered by the breast meat. If it’s not, pull a little harder and tuck the fillets around the ball until complete.

  Carefully, being mindful not to move the fillets from the sausage meat, flip the breast over so that the skin side is facing upward. Using cupped hands, tuck any edges underneath the parcel. When you’re finished, you should be left with a tight-ish ball of chicken, with only skin visible on the top side.

  Take each slice of bacon and wrap it all the way around the circumference of the parcel, overlapping a bit at the base. Pull quite tightly—this will help to keep the parcel together.

  To secure your parcel before cooking, place two trusses over the bacon, opening them up as wide as they will stretch, being careful not to shift anything, and securing the bacon in place. Then secure two more trusses across the breast in the other direction, so that each overlapping truss forms a cross on top. Add a few more trusses here if you want to be extra secure.

  Brown the parcel in the preheated oven for 5 minutes, then turn the oven temperature down to 320°F (160°C) and bake for another 45 minutes to 1 hour, until the sausage meat is completely cooked.

  To plate, slice as you would a cake so you end up with a wedge of chicken with sausage meat inside and a little bacon, too. Serve with some roaste
d potatoes and buttered greens on the side.

  Two

  Pale morning light filtered in through the front windows of the farm shop as I began my routine. It was my job to neatly pile sausages into display trays then clean the glass counter with Windex until no fatty smears coated the inside. Next I would fill up the freezer with small, headless game birds, before picking up our daily cooked breakfast from the bakery ten minutes before the shop opened. Delicacies included souring sausages close to their sell-by and slices of bacon that had been dropped on the floor and could no longer be put on display. If I hadn’t learned much yet, at least I’d gained a stronger stomach.

  Two months into my new job, no one was offering to teach me how to cut up beef, lamb, or pork. Adam had shown me how to joint a chicken, how to stuff a chicken breast, and how to make a chicken parcel, but I had been limited to poultry to ensure I was working on only the less expensive cuts. I was desperate to learn more, and I asked questions whenever I could. The awkwardness of my first day had given way to frustration. While I was no longer the new girl, I was floating through my stagnant day watching jealously as the butchers were breaking down sides and carcasses so easily and so quickly. No one offered to share their knowledge with me.